


Outside the Window

by DozingNeko



Series: Johnlock "Daily" Prompts [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, Post-Reichenbach, Referenced murder, Responsible Self-Medication, Sad Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes: Hitman, Sherlock Is Not Okay, implied depression, pre-Empty Hearse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-09
Updated: 2018-04-09
Packaged: 2019-04-20 14:32:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14263086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DozingNeko/pseuds/DozingNeko
Summary: Settling into solidarity is not as simple as one may hope.





	Outside the Window

Steady raindrops hadn’t stopped falling, hitting the glass windowpane of his new flat for perhaps a week. It had been several months since he had lost his friend. Since the winds of fate changed direction, hitting him straight in the face and dragging him backwards; away from his life. Away from the only friend he had. 

The recliner in his flat, the lone item of furniture in the glorified shed he inhabited, was pulled to face the window, the legs drawn upward, allowing him to stare out into the gradually thickening forest. Occasionally he would see a jackdaw, the rare rabbit, sprinting into a nest or burrow to seek shelter from the continuous storm.

Lights from the town swam through the late evening air, painting his face in copper, changing the drops on the glass into pebbles of gold.

In times of silence such as these, he mourned, taking his medication and guzzling his water. Anything stronger would be unwise. 

Tea hurt too much. 

A silent lament echoed around him, loud silence pounding against the mildew-rich walls. No matter the inclination, he didn't weep at times like these. There was no point in doing so, unless he wanted to dehydrate more expediently. 

Conceptualizing such made him snort with derision, humming as cool water flooded his esophagus. 

Never had such a simple act overjoyed him like this: filling his body with nearly orgasmic needly sensations. Drinking water was a transcendent experienced. 

His mobile groaned against the leather of his armchair as it went off, falling into hiding at his hip. The satisfaction was gone in the same moment, because he knew what the text would be. The next location, the next face, the next hit. 

Once upon a time, the idea of _ the next hit _ would have him almost drooling with anticipation. Instead it set his heart to sinking, dread creeping into skeleton. 

With a heavy sigh, resigning himself to his own dastardly fate, he opened his phone, squinting at the new text. 

_ Next Target: _

_ Bryan Winston _

_ Arms dealer _

_ Run out of tube station in Oslo. _

_ No warrant for arrest; murder _

_ pardonable. Handle at your own _

_ discretion.  _

_ -MH _

Sherlock sighed, feeling his lungs tremble with a sob. Only a year had passed since his Fall, and yet he wasn't close to the end of constant companions and lackeys of Moriarty. Who knew how many more people he would poison, strangle, stab, garrote, defenestrate before he could go home. 

All he wanted was to sit at the hearth, enjoying the company of his good friend, partaking in warm tea whilst Mrs. Hudson fluttered around like an over-concerned mother bird. 

But, very well, he conceded silently,staring at the generic acetaminophen paracetamol bottle bleakly. It would save Lestrade. He would save Mrs. Hudson. He would return to John. 


End file.
